The Captive Bride (21 page)

He led her in that direction, and they were met by Jake Mason, whose face was blazing with anger, red despite the freezing wind. “They killed ‘im, they did!”

“Killed who, Mason?” Gilbert demanded quickly.

“Why, that young Indian—” Mason stopped at once, cast a quick look at Rachel, and said in embarrassment, “It's bad news fer you, Miss Rachel!”

“For me?” Rachel thought with a blinding stab of fear that it might be her father.

“It's the young Indian lad, you know? John Sassamon. Murdered, he is!”

Rachel gave a sharp cry and followed Gilbert, who pushed his way through the crowd until they came to stand before a sled drawn by two large horses. The driver was a man he knew slightly, Samuel Holt, a deacon of the church at Lenton, one of the magistrates of the town. He said at once, “We have much trouble, Pastor Winslow!”

“What happened, Mr. Holt?” Gilbert asked.

“Why, one of our young men found the body of Sassamon nigh onto a week ago. John Wingfield found him, and it was strange! John and two others was passing by a frozen pond near Middleborough and they noticed something out on the surface of the pond. It looked like a man's hat, and they found a musket close by. Well, a man's not likely to leave them things in the dead of winter, so John took another look. And then he saw it!” Holt shivered a little, and went on, his words being devoured by the crowd.

“Right there under the ice was a face! They ran to get an ax, and they chopped the body out, and it was John Sassamon!”

Gilbert felt the shock run through Rachel, and he held her with one arm, asking, “He drowned, then, and the pond froze over him?”

“Well, so we thought, but Sassamon was an Indian. He wouldn't have been fool enough to cross the ice before it was hard. We took a look and seen a swelling on the side of his head, which could have come from a blow—but then we found out his neck was broken! Now a man falling into a pond, he's not likely to do that, is he now, Pastor?”

“Not likely.”

“No, indeed!” Holt said vigorously. “We began to think the lad had been murdered, and it made to look like an accident.”

“No way to prove that, is there, Mr. Holt?”

The magistrate had the audience in his hand, and he
savored the moment. “Not for most, I'm thinking. Be sure your sin will find you out.' ” He nodded as a few of his hearers muttered
amens.

“What? You did discover something?” Gilbert asked.

“Yes, Reverend, we did—and it was like this: An Indian who'd been on the outs with King Philip seen the whole thing! And he come to me and when he told his story, we arrested three men for the murder. And we had a trial—well, we had
two
trials, as a matter of fact, to be sure. One was made up of settlers and the other of Indians as can be trusted.”

“What was your finding?”

“Guilty as charged—and sentenced to be hung, all three of them!” Holt stared at the crowd and said solemnly, “And hear this, if you please—Philip was in a rage, and all three of the men denied it. They stood on the gallows and swore they was innocent.” Holt again paused, and despite the cold, his brow was beaded with sweat, and he pulled out a large handkerchief and mopped his forehead with a trembling hand before he went on.

“We hung two of them, but the rope broke under the last one, and he came to himself! He confessed that all three of them had done the deed, and he swore Philip put 'em all up to it! Well, we hung him again and the rope
didn't
break that time!”

A babble of questions rose up, but Gilbert's voice rang strong and clear. “What about Philip?”

Holt stared at him, licked his lips, then shook his head.

“That's what I've come to tell you,” he said. “Philip is on the warpath, and we got to organize—because when that red devil breaks loose, there's not a man, woman, or helpless child in this part of the world who's got a chance to live!”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE WINTER IS PAST

Spring melted the icy covering of the land early, freeing the rivers by early March. It was one of the fairest springs that Rachel remembered, but she could not rejoice in it. The memory of her last words to her father came to her day and night:
Why did you come back?
She avoided his presence whenever possible.

Lydia observed Rachel's reaction. In turn she saw what Rachel's rejection was doing to Matthew. It made her ashamed of her own resistance to him, suppressing the happy memories of their life together, but she could not seem to break out of her resentment. As long as she had thought him dead, she could manage to forgive him. But he was alive! And no matter what changes had come about in his life, she could not get past her own deep bitterness. She longed to speak to her strong-willed daughter, but could not find a way. How could she help Rachel forgive when she herself could not?

June came, and Rachel grew restless. She walked the shores of the sea and followed the nearby paths through the woods, and she threw herself into the work of the church with an energy that both Gilbert and Lydia recognized.

Relief at last offered itself in the form of a trip to Swansea, a village only a few miles from Jude's farm. Mercy and Praise God Pittman had moved from Plymouth in the fall, and the stocky young husband dropped by unexpectedly to ask a favor.

“It's time for the baby—and Mercy is asking for you to
come and be with her,” he said to Rachel. “ 'Course there's some older married women there—but she's partial to you, Miss Rachel.”

Rachel said instantly, “Of course, I'll come.”

“But there's talk about the Indians, Praise God,” Lydia said. “Why don't you bring Mercy here to have her baby?”

“I tried, but she says she wants me around. I told her I'd beat her into submission,” he joked, grinning, broadly, “but she knows she's safe enough ‘till the little ‘un comes!”

Lydia resisted the idea, for the settlement swarmed with talk about the possibility of Indian raids, but Rachel got around her by getting Gilbert to agree. She had always been able to sway him, and when she put the request in the form of an opportunity to perform a Christian charity, he could hardly refuse.

“You're a fool where that girl is concerned, Gilbert!” Lydia said angrily. “War could break out at any time, and you know it!”

Gilbert felt the rebuke keenly, but he had given his word, so when he and Lydia said goodbye to Rachel as she left with Praise God, he could only make one last plea. “Wait until next week, Rachel, and I'll go with you myself.”

She laughed and kissed him, her eyes bright with excitement. “Where's your faith, Reverend Winslow? God's still in control, isn't He?” She ran to Lydia, gave her a tremendous hug, whispering, “Don't you worry now, Mother. Who knows, maybe you'll get a son-in-law out of this trip!”

She left with Pittman, and when they were out of sight, Lydia stood there staring, her dark eyes filled with apprehension. “She's been very unhappy lately, Gilbert.”

“And so have you, Lydia,” he answered, looking intently down into her face. He made a restless movement with his shoulders, then said tightly, “The Lord has been very quiet to me lately—and after all these years of sweet harmony with Him, that's very painful. I—I feel rebuked by the way I've treated Matthew, Lydia. I had a dream about it last week.”

“A dream?”

“Yes, I dreamed I was going into a beautiful house, and somehow I knew it was the house of God. I went through a door and there was a beautiful light, so powerful I couldn't bear to look at it, but I yearned to go closer, for I knew it was my Beloved! So I tried to go closer, but out of the light came a voice, and it said, ‘You are my son, but I will not accept you until you have been made pure!' ” Gilbert stared at her, and there was such pain in his honest eyes that she wanted to weep. Then he added, “It doesn't take a Daniel to give the interpretation, Lydia. I've been saying that to my own son ever since he came back.”

“You haven't been unkind, Gilbert—”

“Not
unkind!
” he cried out. “God in heaven!
Not unkind
— is that all I can be to my son who comes back from the dead? What if the father in the story of the Prodigal had been only that—
not unkind!
Lydia, I should have brought forth the best robe and put a ring on his finger! I should have shouted from the rooftop,
This my son was dead, and is alive again—he was lost, and is found!”

Gilbert's eyes were blinded with tears, and he wheeled, stumbling away, his shoulders shaking with grief.

Lydia was overwhelmed, and she sought the quiet of her bedroom, fell on her knees, and prayed as she had never prayed before. All day she stayed there, unconscious of the passage of time. The sun reached its zenith, then began its fall; and still she called out to God. Sometimes her cries were out of the Bible, “Help, Lord, for thy servant perisheth!” Her grief often struck her dumb and she simply lay on her face saying nothing; then a prayer would rise up in her very innermost being, as she called out, the absolute certainty that she was in the presence of God flooded her spirit.

Darkness came, and still she prayed. On into the night as the stars came out to make icy dots of light on a velvety sky, she waited for something. She seemed to be tied to the diurnal movement of the earth itself, and as the night covered
the earth, so her spirit seemed to be covered by a terrible darkness. She remembered when her child was born, the pain and grief, and all night long she struggled to give birth to something in her spirit.

By dawn her strength was gone. She lay spent and drained on the floor, her hair wet with perspiration and her limbs trembling with weakness. She could not cry any longer, and as the ebony sky outside blushed into pale crimson, the room suddenly seemed to catch some of that light. Lydia did not lift her head, but she felt her heart strangely warmed, and her spirit became calm.

She felt as the disciples must have felt as the stormy, raging seas that filled their ears with blasts of sound suddenly fell silent and only a hush remained.

For a long time she lay there, drinking in the silence, knowing that she was in the presence of the Lord God of all the earth. Then a message came, beginning as a whisper far away, but swelling louder until it filled her heart:

Never did Lydia forget that voice, nor did she forget the commandment that followed, for after the words of Solomon's Song echoed sweetly in her heart, there followed a time which she knew she could never speak of on earth. Some things are too sacred for words. When she finally rose from the floor, her limbs were cramped with pain, but her heart was filled with a peace such as she had not known existed.

All week long she walked with God, shut in with a holy presence, and the light on her face told Gilbert that she had passed out of her crucible.

He was made sure of this when on Wednesday of the
following week, he came home late in the afternoon to say, “Matthew came in today with a load of beaver pelts.”

She looked up suddenly from the garment she was sewing, and said quietly, “Gilbert, I want you to go to Matthew. Tell him I want to see him.”

He stared at her, caught off guard by her sudden announcement. “You mean—now?”

“Yes.”

He slowly got to his feet, a question in his eyes, but he said nothing. He had learned over the years that when his dark-eyed daughter-in-law made up her mind, there was nothing to do but stand aside.

“I'll go at once, Lydia,” he said, and left at a fast gait. She sat there holding the cloth for a while, her eyes fixed on nothing. Then she took a deep breath and said, “Amen.”

Thirty minutes later she heard his footsteps on the walk. Her heart quickened and she stood up. Then he was at the door knocking.

“Come in, Matthew,” she said quietly, trying to suppress her emotions.

He opened the door to see her standing beside the table, and as always, her dark loveliness caught at him powerfully. He stepped inside, closing the door, then stood there waiting for her word. “You wanted to see me, Lydia?”

Her oval face was framed by a halo of dark curls, and the smooth planes of her features made her dark eyes seem enormous. Her full red lips trembled slightly, then she nodded. “Matthew, I want to ask you—to forgive me.”

He stared at her, noting that she was trying to maintain her composure. “Why, Lydia, I don't think—”

“Please—” she whispered softly, “don't say anything! Ever since you came back, I've been—terrible!” Tears welled up in her eyes and she let them run down her cheeks unheeded. “I've been so filled up with bitterness and hurt pride that God has had to break me! And it's not only that I've been
unjust, but I've made Rachel feel the same—and that's what's breaking my heart!”

Matthew stood there quietly enough, but his emotions were chaotic. He shook his head, and wonder touched his eyes as he said, “Lydia, you have nothing to reproach yourself for.”

“But I do!” she cried out, and she raised her hands and came to him so suddenly that he caught her in his strong arms. She looked up into his face, and slowly she said, “I am your wife, Matthew—if you want me!”

A great roaring seemed to fill his head, stirring memories he thought had died long ago. She put her hands on his neck, and as she drew his head down, she suddenly cried out, “I love you, Matthew!”

He kissed her gently at first; then exulting in her courageous offer of herself, he finally lifted his head and whispered huskily, “I've never stopped loving you—Princess!”